


Last Man Standing

by chufus56



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chufus56/pseuds/chufus56
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carter tends to John. John worries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Man Standing

**Author's Note:**

> Brief mention of underage.

John was okay when she found him. Still standing. 

Well. Leaning, technically.

She cleared the alley first, like the good police she was, and then she circled back to stare at him.

“Carter." He paused, worked to make his voice normal. Cold, distain - "What are you doing?”

She holstered her weapon and grabbed his shirt, clearly not buying normal. “Getting you the hell out of here.”

He wasn't much for people grabbing him, usually. But his working hand was busy, applying pressure, and his tongue felt thick. A car rolled by and she stilled, pressed tighter into the shadows, into him.

"Ah, no." He breathed into her hair. "No can do." 

"What do you mean, _no_?" Her gaze raked over him, fear and fury in her eyes, like sparks on an oil slick. 

He felt bad. Responsible.  

“Finch is going to distract them,” he allowed. “Then we move.”

She glared like he’d said they were waiting for a magic carpet ride, and then she moved even closer, one hand gripping the sleeve of his coat. Fair enough. He might have started to tilt. 

“You should go,” he reminded her. "You're not too popular with these guys."

“I’m getting you to a doctor.”

He smiled. She’d said it like he’d broken curfew, and was grounded.

Minutes crawled on. The blood running down his leg, into his shoe, turned cold. The warmth of Carter's hands seeped through his suit jacket, through his shirt. His ears were ringing, going on dizzy, when Finch came online. “Mr. Reese, an all-units call has gone out. Will you be alright?”

“Yeah. You have Kressey and Simmons?”

“Detective Fusco is on Kressey and Shaw is on Simmons." Finch's voice was hurried, overstressed. John sympathized. "Do you need a car?”

There were sirens echoing around them now, cop cars racing toward some disaster.

“No," John said. "Going to stay down here.”

“Very well, call if you need me.”

John touched his ear and hauled himself off the wall. “All clear.”

“You got a ride close by?" She nodded toward the street. "Mine’s on Second.”

“No car.”

“What do you mean, _no car_?”

He pulled toward the back of the alley. “I have a place.”

It was eight blocks. He’d have made it fine on his own. Still, it was faster with Carter to lean on, and the security - backup that wasn’t bleeding - was nice. The side streets were dark and peaceful, the air sparkling with frost. He liked New York like this. 

She gave him a funny look when he punched in the code for the elevator. It opened instantly, LEDs bright against the steel. He’d kept his hand up to keep the blood in, but now it dripped through the elbow of his coat, falling bright against the silvery floor. His hands at the apartment door were steady, even if they’d slicked the key. Joss followed him in cautiously, peering into the corners, locking the door behind them.

He moved toward the bathroom and she followed, watched as he dumped the soft coat and suit jacket on the tiles. He sat on the toilet, finally, and let his head come down, blood singing, black spots fading to the edges of his vision.

Joss pressed a towel to the cut across the back of his neck. “So. Where are we, John?” She peered into his eyes, assessing for concussion, for blood loss, for truth. 

He wouldn't have bothered with an answer, normally. But she knew to wait him out. She'd known him from the beginning.

Where are we, he thought tiredly. Where is this?

“ . . . Harold’s place. For me.”

She pulled gently at his shirt, eyeing the hole in his shoulder. “And does Harold’s place for you have a doctor?”

John pointed at the cabinet under the sink.

She sighed. “Hold this.”

He moved his good hand up to cover the towel and she stepped away, hauling out the plastic medical bin, immediately pulling out thick gauze pads. “I’m not going to suture your neck, John. My first aid doesn't go that far.”

The bleeding wasn’t that bad, anymore. But he could feel the gape of it when he moved. “Shaw can do it. Tape for now.”

Joss shook her head, but she added a roll of tape to the gauze and started running the water, soaking another towel. He was going to have to get a new set.

“Give me that.” She took the towel out of his hand and tossed it toward the sink. “Take off your shirt.” She frowned at his leg. “Pants, too.”

He huffed a little, feeling at the edges of the cut, peering up at her.

“Getting shy on me now? Really?” She said it like he’d brought home a bad report card and refused to clean his room. “Take them off.”

He grinned, unbuttoning his shirt. “Yes ma’am.”

She slipped off her jacket and knelt down in front of him, untying the laces of his shoes. 

He lifted his feet when she told him to, trying not to sway right off the toilet. He looked at her hair, at her bowed head, so close he'd only need to lift his hand to touch her.

He'd once spent a solid month in a Moroccan sex club, watching a Saudi bankroller get drunk and fuck underaged girls. They knelt at his feet every night, smooth dark hair, and they'd push him up whenever he started to fall out of his chair, and he would pull their hair and rub his hands over their faces and John wished he wasn't remembering that.

She glanced up, some sixth sense. "Gonna be sick?"

"No."

She slipped off his shoes and he stood up and pulled off his pants on his own, didn’t sway or fall over on top of her at all.

Joss sat him back down and handed him a wet towel. “Two guys?”

“Four.”

“And the fourth one was too fast for you, huh?”

He breathed out, slowly, and dragged the warm towel over the agony of the hole in his thigh.

When he looked up Joss was smirking, reaching out to swap the bloody towel for a clean one. “Or did one of them get the drop on you, Wonderboy?”

“One of them shot me—” he gritted his teeth over the stab wound in his shoulder “—while I was busy with his friend.”

“And one of his buddies moved in and stuck you from behind." He didn't answer. She knew how to read a fight. "You miss a kneecap?”

“No.” He hadn’t actually. The guy was just deranged. And had a really big knife. “Must’ve been on something.”

His chest and arm and leg were matted with blood, running over his hand, into his briefs, pooled between his toes. He mopped it up and Joss rinsed out the towels and handed them back and the sink turned pink. His vision was going in and out, gentle mists of red and gray. She taped his neck and shoulder, hands warm and quick, and then he did the leg himself.

She stood back and gave him a once over. “Don’t suppose you keep an extra suit here.”

“Yeah.”

“You okay to get changed on your own?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, I'll leave you to it,” she said, and left him to wander back to his closet.

He lay down for ten minutes on the bathroom floor and let the shock run out of his body. When he came out she was standing in the living room, coat back on, and he was barefoot in a t-shirt and sweats.

Her mouth fell open. “You staying here tonight?”

He dimmed the lights, sending the view into relief. "Yeah."

A pause, and then she leaned toward the door while he gestured toward the sideboard.

“Well, I should be – ”

“Would you like – ”

She broke off awkwardly and he pulled out a bottle of whiskey and raised it, a slow salute. “You’ve earned it, Carter.”

She laughed, dry and low, and it skipped down his spine. “Damn right. But you have too many holes in you to be drinking.”

“And too many not to.”

"Maybe so. But you should get some rest."

"I am." He eased onto the couch with the bottle and two tumblers.

"Well - "

She glanced at the door. Then she pulled off her coat and sat diagonal to him. He poured, handed her a glass, and she clinked it with his. “To the last man standing,” she said.

He drank, reminding himself not to down it all in one go. “I think that might be Lionel at this point.”

She laughed and he looked back at his glass, reminding himself not to stare.

“You know," she said, "I’m afraid to ask what kind of distraction Finch just set up to get HR off your tail.”

He took another sip.

“Well?”

"Hm?"

“John.”

“Joss.”

She was smiling depite herself and he grinned. 

“Please tell me he didn’t sink Rikers or levitate half the city. Or anything equally crazy.”

“You think Harold can levitate?”

“I think a man with those resources can find a way.”

She was looking at him dead on, arm on the couch, head propped lazily in her hand. She'd asked him a thousand questions before but never like this. Like a friend.

“Not sure,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head and was instantly, crushingly beautiful, backlit by the city lights. 

John let his gaze slip to the windows behind her. “Finch was . . . interested - ” seized with unholy glee was more like it “ – by the explosion that took out HR's drug lab.” He paused significantly. "Very interested."

“He – _what?"_  She jerked forward on the couch, hissing at him. But it was only half horror, the other half was humor, and he knew her well enough to tell.

A ball of nerves in his belly flared happily. He stuffed it down.

“You think he was _blowing up_ buildings?”

“Just drug dens, Carter.”

“Just drug dens. _Dens._ ”

She finished her drink, set it down, and watched him pour two more. He was grinning, couldn’t help it. "As in more than one drug den.” He leaned back into the couch, cradling his drink, watching her. Savoring her. “This is all speculation, Detective. But if any labs did tragically explode in New York today, I’m sure Harold found a way to sound the alarm and get all the cooks out safe.”

She sipped her drink and wagged a motherly finger at him. “One of these days I'm going to arrest you for the mayhem you and your partner create.” She added in a low mutter, "And I'm not a detective anymore."

"Can't let people like that tell you what you are, Carter."

"Well." She eyed him. "True enough."

They sat quietly for a minute, comfortably. There was pain, if he moved, but the trick was to think about how much less pain he was in now than he'd been in an hour ago. It was really a lot less.

A phone in the kitchen buzzed and she waved him down, went in search of it.

"In the drawer," he called.

She opened the drawer and stared at the interior.

"Underneath."

She found it, velcroed to the underside of the cabinet, and brought it back to him. He smiled as he answered it, charmed, and she rolled her eyes.

"Yes? . . . No, cancel it please. Anderson. . . . And to you."

He slid the phone onto the table next to him and she sank back into the couch, sharp and casual, every inch a detective. "Problem?"

"No."

She hesitated, but when the question came it sounded more curious than probing. "Seperate phone for the Anderson alias?" 

"Not really." John picked up the cell again and let it tilt back and forth in his hands. "Seperate phone for personal calls. Have a standing date with Zoe, on Thursdays." He gestured toward his leg. "Don't think I'm going to make it."

She smiled, warm and full, like she thought he was both adorable and functional. Not a look he'd ever seen from her before. "Standing date, John? That's nice."

Nice.

"It's so we don't have to use phones, directly. Check the reservation and if either party's cancelled - "

"Ah."

"No trail." He nudged the cell back on the table.

"So," she said, gentle, "Once a week?"

He didn't answer, which was his standard yes.

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "I think a lot of men would consider that the ideal relationship." 

He nodded. Added, "It was her idea."

She laughed. "Well, I guess Zoe would be a lot of guys idea of the ideal woman."

They were quiet again. 

"How're things with you, Carter?"

She raised an eyebrow. They both knew the extent of Finch's surveillance, and as for her personal life, Beecher hovered in the air between them like a corpse hanging from the rafters.

"Just fine." She returned his frank gaze. "Some reason you're asking, John?"

Well . . . "Yeah." He'd tried to be delicate, had been trying for weeks. But he hadn't gotten anywhere and he wasn't much for _delicate_ , anyway. "Finch thinks you've gotten obsessed with HR."

"Finch is one to talk." It was supposed to be sharp, a warning, but the whiskey had mellowed her out. Which was probably why John suggested it in the first place. She shot him a dirty look.

"He is," John agreed, mild. He leaned forward, ignoring the pain in his leg, the flair of it in his shoulder. "He knows what it is to lose someone. And to give everything up for  - " he frowned, searching for the word, " - a crusade - but - "

"And you're one to talk, too," Carter cut him off.

"Me?"

"Please." She scoffed, looked away. "I know your story, John."

He sat back again, studying her openly. "Finch thinks we've corrupted you."

She shifted, the first sign of anxiety. "Finch thinks a lot of crazy things."

"We got you to look the other way when we broke the law, convinced you to let us color outside the lines. Now you're pissed off and doing the same."

"So what if I am?"

He actually looked a little stunned. "You're out there with no backup - " he waved a hand at the windows. "You could have been killed tonight. For what?"

She was unimpressed. "Don't give me that, you know what for. You were out there too."

He stared at her, unblinking. "We have corrupted you."

"That's ridiculous."

His face went hard. "No, it's not. You're treating your safety - "

Her eyes were starting to glitter, he noticed. Rising to the challenge. He broke off, took a breath. "You shouldn't compare yourself to me," he said. Quiet. Soft. "We're not the same. You have something to lose."

She looked down at the glass in her hands. "I know you don't want to hear this, John. But I don't think that matters as much as you want it to. And I can't let them get away with it, anyway. Not this time."

"They won't. Be a cop, Carter, and Finch and I will help you get them."

She didn't look up. "It's not that simple." 

Carter felt the change in the air. She knew he hadn't moved, that he was injured. But he'd gone dark, aggressive. 

She'd never let herself be intimidated by him before. She wasn't about to start now. "I can't go back to life as usual, like nothing's changed. He was killed by his own people."

"I understand that. But you can't come over to this life, either," he said flatly. "This - tonight - it can't keep happening."

She looked around the apartment wryly. "What, million dollar safehouses and Finch's magical surveillance?" She shrugged, held his eyes. "It doesn't matter. I've tried, John. I can't go back. People don't work like that. _I_ don't work like that."

He closed his eyes. "This isn't a safehouse."

"Sorry?"

"I live here, Carter. It's not a safehouse."

She looked startled. Glanced around again. "Nice place."

"It's empty."

She nodded, slowly, held his eyes. She could see that.

He took a breath. "He wouldn't want me to tell you this, but Finch lives in hotels, as far as I can tell. Moves every few days. He's as homeless as I was when I met you."

"John - "

"Zoe will never come here. And there won't ever be anyone but Zoe, or someone like her. The perfect woman," he said, and let bitterness edge into it. "A fantasy, once a week."

She waited until she was sure he was done. "I know you've made sacrifices, John. You're doing what you feel you need to do. And I'm doing the same."

His eyes stayed on her, locked onto her gaze like he was sighting her down a rifle. She braced herself.

"Your son misses you," he said.

"I know," she allowed. "And I make as much time as I can for him. But he's not your responsibility, John, and neither am I."

He stood, walking the few steps to where she sat. He looked lethal and her mind pointed out that he probably had weapons stashed everywhere, in easy reach.

His voice was soft. "You're afraid of me."

She wasn't sure if he was actually trying to scare her, but it was chilling either way. "No. I'm not."

"You always know where your firearm is, when you're with me."

That was true. She wasn't an idiot.

She startled as he moved, but he wasn't coming closer. He was sinking in front of her, going down on one knee. 

She didn't go for her gun. But her eyes were wide and she kept her hands free. "John. What are you doing?"

He took her hand loosely in his. She thought distantly that his leg had to be killing him.

"You say you're not my responsibility. But if you're looking at me, at this - " he moved the hand clasped around hers, waving at the sleek apartment, himself - "and you think that it's okay, then you are my responsibility. You need to remember me the way you found me, Carter. That first time."

"You've helped a lot of people since then, John," she said gently. "You've done a lot of good."

"And it hasn't won back anything I lost. I may look different, but - Carter - " he paused, speaking carefully. "When I was with the CIA, we learned to work in a way that looked - that was seductive. To lure assets, to manipulate people into working for us. But it's an illusion." He looked at her closely. "You need to remember that."

"I know, John."

"But now you know me too, and you want to throw away your instincts, to justify what I've done. You want to do it yourself. Going out on your own, blackmail, kills off the books." His mouth twisted. "Elias. You made a deal with him."

He looked haunted. She didn't know what to say.

His eyes moved over her face and he raised his hand, very slowly, let her see it. When she didn't stop him he reached up and gently touched her hair. "You're better than that," he whispered.

Her breath was shaky. "I'm really not sure that I am, anymore."

He smoothed the hair behind her ear. "I'm sure."

His knuckle skimmed down her cheek, and then his hand was gone.

"If you die in this, Carter," he said solemnly, "I'm out."

"Excuse me?"

"If this city and your son lose you because you followed me down the rabbit hole," he spoke clearly, succintly. It had the air of a threat. "Then I'm done with the numbers. Done with Finch. With all of it. Done."

She stared at him, challenging. "So now you're blackmailing me in the afterlife?" 

"If you want to think of it that way."

He stood silently, effortlessly, and that shouldn't have been possible with a hole in his quad. She looked at his sweats where the wound would be, but the material was dark. If it had started bleeding again she couldn't see it.

He was looking at her expectantly.

"John, I appreciate the sentiment." She frowned. She still had to _process_ the sentiment. "But a man - Cal died. I told you from the beginning, I have rules, and they are _my_ rules. This isn't on you." She twisted her hands, looked away. "I'm going to do what I need to do to bring them down."

"I know," he said simply. "But you can do it above board if you'll let us help. We can keep you clean. You can keep your life, get your career back. Make time for your son." 

He still stood over her, looming, but it wasn't exactly threatening anymore. He felt like a pillar at her side, like a guard. She was sure he knew precisely what he was doing, how he could manipulate people, change how he came off. How he affected her. He'd _told_ her he did.

That didn' t change the way it felt.

"Well," she said. She stood. "That's a nice offer. But I'm not suicidal, John. So you and Finch can relax. And I'll try to keep you in the loop." She touched his shoulder, a little awkward, pale echo of a cop buddy slap on the back.

He nodded. He looked worried.

"Though what I can tell you that you're not already going to have spied on . . . " Carter teased.

He didn't react at all. She rolled her eyes. "I'm a cop, John. My life is always in danger, remember?" He watched her reach for her coat. "And speaking of my son, if I leave now I might just catch him."

"It's four a.m."

"Yeah," she sighed. "On his way to school." She stepped toward the door. "Thanks for the drink."

He stood still, watching her walk away.

"Carter." She turned, looked at him. He had one hand wrapped around his middle, and she wondered if he'd hurt his ribs again. His other hand lifted, taking in the apartment. "Anytime." 

She nodded, turned and left, letting the lock latch behind her.

 


End file.
